


they say there's good grief.

by riskbreakered



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 23:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riskbreakered/pseuds/riskbreakered
Summary: Time is the enemy.





	they say there's good grief.

Time is the real enemy, Frank realizes.

Revenge, that gives you focus. A goal to plan around, something to occupy his mind. But once he's reached that goal?

There's nothing but freedom. No work, no gun in his hands, no solid weight of a hammer. Time unwinds and stretches out before him, the scope of it insurmountable.

So he fights it, minute to minute. Day to day. Curtis buys him a planner. Something for his goals.

Wake.

Shower.

Eat.

Find work.

One of the boys at the group meeting offers him a chance at another day labor job, and he takes it. (There's some desperation, after having to deal with the weight of solitude and silence, and war inside that's always sure to follow.)

**

Frank plans for a few small detours on his way to work each morning. 

One, for coffee. Two, for the newsstand. Reading and coffee are his few allowable vices.

And Karen Page?

Strategically, he keeps this third vice at a distance. 

(He remembers the fear he felt the last time they'd met, the fear he'd felt at losing her, like a pair of hands clutched to his throat.)

The paper he keeps folded and tucked into his lunch pail, until he can spare a quiet moment to himself.

**

He eats his dinner alone, a take-out box nestled in his hands as he leans over to inspect the day's headlines.

_No More Devil of Hell's Kitchen?_

**

"Hey there," the woman says, handing him the styrofoam cup. "Pay it forward, right?"

Frank's too busy counting quarters that he misses her sneaking up in line. 

"Ma'am," he says, pocketing his change. "You didn't have to."

"But I wanted to," she argues, and she gestures them both out of the way. "Besides, my friend is late."

Frank decides the look means "again". 

"Thank you."

He looks down to the items she's carrying. Notices the paper (and Karen's familiar byline).

"You, uh," he nods, "believe everything you read these days?"

She shrugs. "Either way, it's hard not be involved. _Especially_ these days."

Frank takes a swig of his coffee. It's bitter, and he figures they haven't cleaned the coffee pots in a few odd years. If ever. 

He grimaces to himself.

"And what about that red--" a grunt "--Devil of Hell's Kitchen, huh? Think he disagrees with you."

There's a flicker of something on the woman's face, something Frank can't place. She sips her own coffee.

"I think heroism is bigger than just one person in a mask, don't you?"

Frank wants to argue the point, and he takes a deep breath to do so. But something happens over his shoulder and the woman shifts her attention.

"Sorry, that's my cue," she apologizes. She looks him in the eyes before she walks back into the crowd, as if she might want to argue the point as well, but instead hands him the paper.

Frank holds his cup and his paper and let's the frown of confusion take over his face.

She waves. "Have a nice day, alright?"

**

Frank's no saint. 

He manages for quite some time, making up for virtue with pure stubborn pride, until one day he finds himself in Karen's neighborhood.

Standing on the opposite side of the street, he can see her apartment window.

The season is brisk and brings with it a chill wind. Too much to keep a window open. A bad time to leave a pot of flowers on the ledge.

He wonders to himself if she's kept it.

**

Frank doesn't come to this part of the city often. And he doesn't often find a need for a cheap florist either, but the small shop is able to accommodate his small request. He fills out the delivery form and pays for the service in cash.

Standing over a bucket of peonies and chrysanthemums, Frank Castle hears a familiar voice echoing from the back of the shop.

Turning his head, he spots an old, battered radio. The florist spots Frank's expression and shrugs. 

"What? You never listen to _Trish Talk_?"

**

He hasn't been to Hell's Kitchen in a long damn while. It's not the best place, he figures, for a lot of folks to go out walking at night. Especially if what the rumors say are true.

Not that Frank Castle is like a lot of other folks.

It's cold.

He pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head and makes a slow path down the sidewalk. There is no destination in mind, but time is the enemy -- and any motion is better than standing still. 

(He's still trying to outpace his own mind.)

Up ahead is a twenty-four hour chapel. It marks itself with an old neon sign, a red cross that drives a violent hole into the night. He stops several paces aways and stares, wondering who might take solace in such a place.

Distantly, he hears the wailing of a siren.

Frank moves on.

**

He sets the fresh cup of coffee on the kitchen table beside the newspaper. Frank always plans his weekend mornings with time enough for both. 

For the moment, he opens his planner instead and moves to a new page.

His pen hand hovers above the paper in hesitation. 

One day soon, he'll need to stop running and decide.


End file.
